


The Red King

by Anonymous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Red King rules now, not death.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37
Collections: Anonymous





	The Red King

The Red King was born from love, born from blood and sorrows.

He ruled from his castle in the forest, sunny as his crown was not, bright as his eyes were not, white as his heart was not — or so it was said.

It is also said that his powers — the flash of god-gold eyes — were stolen, plucked like asphodel from the underworld, the heart of the god of death, chewed and swallowed.

Stolen or not, they were real. When the west marched against his realm, when an army of rebels and malcontents and so-called lovers of justice rose in innumerable hosts to fell his white castle, he met them not with armies but with an artful flick of the wrist, a glimmer in dark irises. Assassins were undone by his hand, or by the twin axes of the Queen General, herself a force of nature.

The armies, with banners flapping and swords clanging and boots marching, broke like a wave against a high cliff; and so they came again and again like the tide, and never was the cliff — the king — moved. Peace was had, hard but true, and the names of his enemies faded into history.

I went, once, to Whitespire, to have an audience with him. It was a long walk, through field and forest, but safe. Guards took me to his throne, though I cannot remember the castle, or the room, so long ago it was.

I remember him, though. He was sprawled, regal and tall even seated on the modest throne. It was nearing sunset, and he was bathed in syrupy honey light, his eyes green-brown and dappled like a forest floor at noon, the jewels on his crown flame-red. One hand — the right, long, be-ringed, and elegant-fingered — curled about the delicate stem of a glass full of black-red wine. The left pet the head on his knee, the gold jewelry and faceted gems glimmering in the light.

The Prince Consort was never seen — or at least not often. When out of the castle he was surrounded by a host of guards, but he was rarely out, preferring to remain at his King’s side — or in his lap, as it were. He lounged on a cushion, a man with an air of melancholy in soil-brown eyes and the downward tilt of his mouth, his hair long and spooled over the thighs of his King.

The King looked at me with his dark eyes, his long face and strong nose and curled, black hair a frame for those eyes, the black regal eyes of the man who ate death’s heart.

Speak, said the King, and so I did. I spoke of my farm, of stolen fruit and a noble son beaten by a cruel thief of a farmer. His eyes drew it from me, the truth of my son’s pain, the red that had dripped down his temple, had pooled beneath his skin. I shed tears before the room, spoke until the sun dipped below the horizon and the world went blue, then dark.

Stop, said the King, and so I did. He moved his gaze to the side, solid and imperial. He snapped his fingers, and at the sharp sound a man appeared — the thief. I saw his eyes meet mine and widen, white around his irises, and the King raised his left hand, shaped it as if holding a fruit, and twisted. The thief’s head followed the motion, and another sharp sound, and the dull thump of the man’s body striking the floor.

Your son will be healed when you return to him, said the King. And so he was. He’d had dreams, dreams of the King, and his Consort.

The Red King was once a man — a lonely, grieving man — and he’d descended into the underworld to retrieve another man lonely and grieving, to bring him back and be happy.

He sang for Hades, god of death, of the dead, of the silent hosts, of the asphodel meadows. He sang and sang and sang, but the god of death was unmoved — it was long past the age of heroes, he said, past the age of resurrections and returns.

So the man cracked open Hades’ ribs and ate his heart, and returned the Red King, with his Consort alive and breathing, and the world would never hurt them again.

The Red King was born from love, born from blood and sorrows.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never watched the magicians, nor shall i
> 
> i had planned to, but q's death changed that. i've read a lot of fic since, and absorbed some of the anger of the fandom, from mentally ill and queer folk — as both of those things myself
> 
> recently i read the show had eliot's love and grief for q being shown as something that could 'make him evil,' so i decided to say fuck heterocentric views of morality. if i must be a villain, then let me
> 
> love you all


End file.
